by Liora Blake
Garrett walks away, meandering about the lot in a looping pattern as he talks. When he’s done, he hands the phone back and points across the street to the auto parts store, then takes off in that direction without offering any explanation. I lift the phone and Cooper starts in.
“OK, Ms. Not-Cinderella, your Mr. Not-Prince-Charming has this under control. Garrett’s going to get the parts, I’m paying for it, and you’re coming to Denver when he’s done.”
“Dammit, Cooper—”
“Stop.” He sighs. “I miss you, my body hurts like hell, and we’re blowing our season to shit, game by game. I need you here, babe. Please, just work with me on this.”
My heart does the strangest thing then. It somehow melts and swells all at one time. Whether it’s because Cooper just said he needed me or because a part of me has missed feeling taken care of, I don’t know. Since my dad died, there’s been no one to do this—step in and help, even when I claim I don’t need it, even when my pride gets in the way.
Cooper sighs again. “Look, there’s going to be times when I have to do this kind of shit for you, Whit. You might hate it, think I’m being overbearing, or get pissed that I’m paying for things you want to handle on your own. Fine. Be pissed. Just know that underneath it all, I’m doing it for one reason. Because I’m in love with you. No other reason other than that.”
My eyes start to sting. I can hear Cooper breathing, waiting for me to say something.
Just say thank you, Whitney. Thank him for handling this. For being a good man. For loving you.
I clamp my eyes shut and keep them that way. Do all I can to keep my voice steady.
“Thank you, Cooper.”
23
(Whitney)
Because of the truck fiasco, my plan to devise that heartfelt note for the greeting card and tuck it in with Cooper’s things doesn’t happen, so I spend most of the drive listening to game coverage—much to my brain’s exasperation. Football on the radio? Painful. Here’s hoping that watching it in person is a bit less tedious.
Cooper said it would be easier to walk to the stadium from his place, so after maneuvering my truck into the parking space next to his truck, I rifle through my things and gather up what I think I’ll need for the next few hours. My ID, what little cash I have, my zip-up hoodie, and that foam finger I simply couldn’t resist.
The walk to the stadium takes less than ten minutes, perhaps because I’m wogging my way there, dodging around slowpoke walkers and jaywalking when necessary. When I arrive, the third quarter has just started. Cooper’s only other instructions were to find the will call window, then call Tyler—who, as Cooper put it, is “the only team minion–flunky I’d trust with you”—and have him escort me in.
Ten minutes later, a fresh-faced college kid emerges from a side door and quick-steps my way. He’s a walking advertisement for all that is our home team, dressed in team-branded gear from head to toe. When he lands in front of me, bless his loyal and devoted heart, even his shoelaces are color coordinated.
“Whitney?” He tips up his white sunglasses, perches them atop his buzz-cut blond hair, and gives me a once-over.
“That’s me.”
Tyler is quite likely agonizing silently over the fact that I’m not dressed in the appropriate colors. Except for, you know, the dumbest accessory known to man, stuck on my right hand. At least I got the color right on that.
I did peruse a little online, looking for jerseys with Cooper’s number emblazoned on them, but gave up when I saw the price. Over a hundred dollars. For a shirt. A shirt you can’t wear out to dinner anywhere that doesn’t have hot wings or mozzarella sticks on the menu.
Also, I wasn’t entirely sure if wearing his jersey would seem a little too high school. Can you wear your boyfriend’s jersey if you’re also too old to consider him as a prom date? Do real girlfriends of real football players do that? I gave up and decided to wear the long-sleeved top that Cooper refers to as my “dick-tease sweater.” I kind of hate how much I don’t hate that he calls it that.
Tyler continues his inspection and leans forward, closing in to see my face better.
“Nose ring. Check.” He hands over a lanyard with a laminated pass attached. “This is the first time Cooper’s ever asked me to do anything, so the last thing I want to do is give this to the wrong woman.”
I pull the lanyard over my head. “Would you like to ask me any wildly personal questions about him? Things only I could verify because of our intimate acquaintance?”
Tyler rears back and widens his eyes. “No. Absolutely not. We don’t talk about players like that.”
It seems I’ve officially Alice-tumbled my way into the rabbit hole of pro football. A mystical land where players are revered and respected, always. No jokes. No jests. Conversations that trend anywhere near their private lives? Certainly not. In order for me to fit in, I’m definitely going to have to adapt.
I give Tyler’s shoulder a gentle tap. “I was just kidding, Tyler. Feel free to stand down.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
With a sigh, I wave my hand forward. Tyler takes the cue and we make our way into the stadium. A short escalator ride takes us to the upper levels and we end up in front of a suite, where the door is partially open but blocked by a security guard dressed in a neon-yellow T-shirt. Tyler points to my lanyard. I raise it up for the guard’s inspection and when I do, dread and anxiety start to take over.
Despite their recent losing streak, home games remain easy sell-outs, so we’re currently standing above seventy thousand screaming, bellowing, hollering, chattering people. Add in the announcers, the music, all of it, and my head is starting to swim. In my mind, I pictured myself down there, among the rest of the fans, where my foam finger might blend in. But here I am, standing in front of an executive suite, positive that nothing about me will make sense in that room.
Tyler taps my shoulder and points toward the doorway. I consider asking him if he’ll come with me. But he doesn’t provide a moment’s chance for me to toss myself at his feet and beg, or wrap my fingers around his elbow and instruct him to pretend like we’re besties. His job is done here, so he simply turns and takes off.
Time to suck it up, Whitney. You are an adaptable individual. Cooper asked you to be here, and you can handle whatever you find on the other side of that door. You can and you will.
I lock eyes with the security guard and give him a curt nod, hastening my own resolve and hoping he might return the gesture, perhaps give me a you go, girl kind of expression. But all he gives back is a slightly bewildered grimace.
The door sweeps open with one push and I step inside.
And, yes, I was so right.
Because one of these things is not like the others.
Fifteen or so women fill the room, some sitting in seats facing the field, others milling about the bar area while daintily holding a wineglass—every one of them beautiful. And tall. So tall, all long legs and lithe arms; even their hair seems exceptionally long. And shiny. And straight. Just my naturally wavy hair alone looks out of place here.
“Whitney!”
I whip my head toward the sound of my name, like a puppy desperate for attention, and find Kendra waving me over to join her, tapping the empty seat next to hers. The ten short steps feel like they take an hour to traverse, but when Kendra opens her arms for a friendly hug, I finally manage a full breath.
Then my foam finger whacks her in the side of the head.
She smooths her hair—her jet-black, glossy, long, pin-straight hair—and cocks one of her perfectly shaped brows.
“Nice foam finger.”
I point the offending object toward the windows.
“I kind of thought we’d be down there.” At the sound of my voice, the other women in the room zero in. “And I thought Cooper would think it’s funny. Quirky.”
Kendra leans back in her seat and smiles.
“I’m sure he will. You seem to have brought out an appreciation for quirky in
him that we didn’t even know existed.”
She raises two fingers toward the back of the room, catching a bartender’s attention. “If you really want to sit in the stands, I’m sure Tyler can make that happen. But we have wine up here.”
A server appears over our shoulders, holding an open bottle of chardonnay in one hand and two fresh glasses in the other.
Wine. Yes. A drink will help. The server disappears after I thank him profusely and attempt to shove a wrinkled ten-dollar bill into his hands. Kendra subtly blocks the move, closing my hand into a loose fist, and shakes her head. Open bar, she tells me, and the guys always make sure the staff is taken care of.
My adoration for her only increases when she takes one of her hands and loosely rolls it through the air, silently gesturing for me to take a deep breath and relax. I take a series of calming breaths. Kendra leans toward me and lowers her voice.
“Don’t let the lioness prowling get to you. You’re new and you’re with Cooper, so they’re just preening. Half of them won’t be here next year, anyway.”
With my drink in hand, I take another scan of the room and the social structure becomes clear.
On the left side of the room, in the front rows, are the newbies. Most of them quite young, a few wearing jerseys—evidently I was wrong about that concept aging out after high school—accessorized with big jewelry and aloof attitudes that indicate they’re balancing some pretty sizable chips on their slim shoulders. Here, on the right side, are the tenured types, wives and longtime girlfriends. Just as gorgeous and polished, but less contrived.
Finally, a few sips of wine and I’m able to focus. I lean forward and even though the suite’s sight lines mean the entire field is in view, it’s still hard to keep track of Cooper when he’s out there. He’s not only fast, but tricky. One moment he’s on one side of the field and the next he’s gone, only to reappear forty yards downfield. The combination of taking some time to rest in Hotchkiss and heading home for a few weeks of rehab seems to have worked.
And sixty million doesn’t seem like nearly enough when he catches a pass that’s almost too long and too high, then rights his body before anyone figures out he actually caught the ball, and fleet-foots into the end zone. All while dodging what seems like a hundred different guys along the way.
The sight gets me on my feet and I end up dancing around like an idiot, with my foam finger only adding more uncoolness to the spectacle. And, honestly, I do not care. Not even a little bit. Because the guy who just did that is with me. When I finally flop down, breathless but grinning, Kendra is laughing so hard she almost spills her wine.
“Did you see that? Come on! He’s like a mountain goat, crossed with a gazelle, crossed with a superhero!”
She manages to stop laughing and locks her eyes on mine, but doesn’t say anything. I let out a huge exhale. “What?”
She shakes her head and looks toward the field.
“I’m just so glad he found you.”
Late in the fourth quarter, with only a few minutes left in the game, we’ve managed to capture a ten-point lead and our offense, Cooper included, is marching down the field yet again. Some of the women in the suite have started to gather their things, touching up their lip gloss and fluffing their hair at the roots, careful to keep the rest of their locks smooth and oh so straight. Kendra leans down and puts her phone in her bag.
“You and Cooper have plans after the game? We can all go out to dinner if you want.”
I give her a side-glance and consider how best to diplomatically explain that I already have plans for Cooper. Plans that don’t involve other people.
She chuckles. “Right. You two haven’t been in the same city for a couple of weeks. He’s your dinner. I get it.”
I give her a confessional grin, just as the stadium goes almost unnaturally quiet. The hair on the back of my neck prickles when I register the shift in energy. Slowly, I look toward the field, tuning out everything but the announcer’s voice.
“Lowry’s down. Always hate to see that, especially when it’s his first game back. We’ll see what happens here, but he’s definitely not moving.”
The suite is nearly silent, all eyes on me again, but mine are fixed on Cooper. He’s on his back and his left leg is twisted in a way that it shouldn’t be. Once the team trainers surround him I can’t see much but his feet. Kendra puts one of her hands on my knee.
“Don’t look. That makes it worse.”
Her permission comes as a relief and I drop my face into my hands. Too many things are rattling around in my head and I can’t decide which terrible scenario to focus on first. Another concussion? His knee again? Something entirely worse, something so bad he can’t move, even if he’s trying to?
Seconds tick by and if that announcer doesn’t say something soon, I’m going down there to get some answers myself. Good luck to anyone who gets in my way.
Kendra shifts her hand to my back and pats gently. “OK. We’re fine. Looks like it’s his knee—he was just staying still so Hunt could get to him. The cart’s coming. But he’s moving, so we’re good.”
Kendra’s words are meant to sound reassuring, and somewhere behind all of the rage that just roared into my consciousness, I know that. But I’m too pissed at Cooper, and this entire world, to take them as intended. I jerk my hands away from my face.
“ ‘We’re good’? He’s moving? Is that the fucking baseline I’m supposed to be OK with?”
Kendra answers calmly. “Yes.”
I lurch out of my seat and my stupid foam finger ends up tangled between the armrests. I yank it out and thwack it against a seat back, taking out my frustration where I can.
“This barbaric sport is so stupid. Idiotic. I hate it. It’s asinine that people love this shit, human beings crashing into each other like dump trucks. Crashing into my human being.”
The room is beyond quiet now, because I just took the name of football in vain, right here in the middle of an executive suite. But the sweep of territorial, intense, anxiety-riddled emotion I’m dealing with right now is too damn much. On top of that, the bullheaded pain in the ass who inspired all that intentionally put himself in this position.
Kendra tugs on my arm, urging me to sit down. When I do, she forces my gaze to meet hers.
“This is who he is. For every one of those guys down there, this game is who they are.” She toys with the wedding ring on her left hand, twists and turns it around her slim finger. “Good or bad, barbaric or not, this is a package deal. So, if you choose him, you choose this, too.”
She takes a glance over my shoulder and points toward the door. “Tyler’s here for you. Go take care of your man.”
There’s something disturbing yet comforting about the fact that I had a handler at my side before I even knew to ask for one. A player gets bulldozed to the ground? Get the trainer. Get the cart. Manage the pain. Go find the girlfriend.
Tyler leads me down a long hallway, where there are entirely too many people around—some reporters and cameramen, team staff, a few players, assorted football groupies—most of whom don’t look anything but cheery. While I’m standing here on the verge of tears, these jerks are chatting away like nothing’s wrong. To avoid losing my sanity entirely, I start to think about what to do when I finally get Cooper home. I yank on Tyler’s shirtsleeve.
“We don’t have a car here. How am I going to get him home?”
Tyler doesn’t miss a beat; he doesn’t even shift his gaze to mine. “Everybody knows Cooper walks to the stadium. We’ve got a Tahoe waiting outside.”
Again, disturbing yet comforting.
Finally, a set of double doors opens and I push myself away from the hallway wall, craning my neck for a better look. Then the small crowd actually parts, Red Sea style, without even a subtle prompting from anyone in charge.
Cooper leans heavily on a pair of crutches, his eyes wary and exhausted. When he sees me, his face shows everything I already suspected. He’s done. For the season, definitely. A
fter that, it’s anyone’s guess.
Stepping forward, my hands go to his face and I try to get as near to him as I can, hoping to smother out everyone else by closing ranks. My forehead meets his, the tips of our noses touch, and our mouths come so close that when he speaks, his lips brush mine.
“Whitney,” he whispers.
“I’m right here.”
“Take me home.”
“You got it.”
At home, I do my best to figure out what he needs. He’s hungry and dehydrated, to the point where he has a headache. Because he’s the ever-organized Cooper, he already has a refrigerator full of food, sports drinks with electrolytes, and chilled jugs of filtered water. I get him settled on the couch with assorted forms of hydration and an ice pack, then work on reheating platefuls of chicken, roasted veggies, and brown rice. We eat in near silence.
After that, I persuade him to take a soak in his oversized tub. A short-lived verbal tussle ensues over whether I should join him. A naked and slippery Cooper is always appealing, which is the problem, because I know us both too well.
I draw the bath for him, adding in some Epsom salts and lemongrass oil before pointing toward the tub, wordlessly directing him with that gesture. He proceeds to stick his bottom lip out a little and, well, pout. A first from Cooper. Pouting isn’t his forte; he’s always more direct than that.
“Go on, get in there.”
He shoves his boxers down. “I’m hurt. It’s unsafe for me to be in there alone.”
My eyes drift down his body and his cock actually registers my perusal, thickening at the recognition. Silly penises; they so enjoy being appreciated. Cooper notes where my attention has settled and when his hand comes forward to grasp the base, I know he’s about to do that thing he knows I like so much—the thing where he touches himself, slowly and intently, with a tight grip I find fascinating.
Crap. I can’t even think about it. Not now. I close my eyes but know that won’t particularly help.
Frankly, I don’t even need to see him do it. On the phone, as long as I know what he’s up to, I can fill in the blanks. If he also provides me with a quality soundtrack of grunts and groans to go along? It’s like someone composed a pornographic overture with my lewd weaknesses in mind, and I’m lost and done before he is.
